


Candlewish

by vanillafluffy



Category: Catch Trap - Marion Zimmer Bradley
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, se circa 1960
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 21:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set five years after the conclusion of "The Catch Trap". Suzy is turning ten, and her family and friends have gathered to throw her a memorable party.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candlewish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kali/gifts).



 

 **Candlewish**

 

 

 

At first, I hate her. She's everything I'm not; she's petite and graceful, I'm tall for my age and awkward. Her dark hair is naturally curly, mine is mousy and baby-fine; it hangs there, limp and straight. Our instructor dotes on her and tolerates me, and I know without a doubt that as long as I’m here, I will always be in Suzy Gardner's shadow.

 

It's 1958, and we're both new students at the Sunset Dance Academy. The difference is, my family's money can't buy me talent. I’ve imagined being a pink-skirted ballerina, like the ones in the Degas prints in my bedroom, but I'm the duckling to her swan.

 

Suzy is Tessa Santelli's cousin, and Tessa, who’s fifteen, is in the advanced class. She always dances the lead roles in student productions. Their family has taken classes at Sunset for ages---an uncle or someone was even an instructor for a while. _It's unfair,_ I think; _they're playing favorites._ Still, Suzy’s come in knowing more than the rest of us.

While I’m struggling to master the basic positions, she executes a flurry of steps with effortless ease. When we learn tumbling, Suzy does cartwheels the length of the studio and comes back doing hand-stands. I can hardly do a somersault without landing flat on my back.

 

It's a terrible thing to feel like a failure at nine years old,

 

I think Suzy is stuck up. The girls who gravitate to her are the better students, or the ones won over by her friendliness; she’s cheerful to everyone, even me. I have a couple other misfits on my side, but we’re in the minority.

 

One day in the changing room, there's a conversation about our fathers.

 

“My daddy is a banker, he runs the Greater California Bank on Donovan Street,” Elaine Baxley boasts.

 

“Does he bring home money?” somebody asks.

 

“That would be stealing! He makes very good money, he doesn’t have to steal.” No, of course not. Elaine's parents have matching Cadillac sedans, and we've all seen her mother stroll into Sunset to collect her wearing a mink coat. All my mom has is a mink stole, and she saves that for special occasions.

 

“Well, my dad is Chief of Development at Monument Studios," Beverly Wills contributes, smug. “Our house has a room where we can watch new movies from the studio any time we want.”   _That may make her Hollywood royalty,_ I simmer, _but she's no better at tumbling than I am._

 

I take a deep breath. “My dad works for Amalgamated Metals. He travels all over the world and last month for my birthday, he brought me a doll from Japan. She’s wearing a real silk kimono.” I'm getting a little old for dolls, but at least Daddy was thinking of me.

 

“My papa is the Aerial Manager of Starr’s Circus,” Suzy interjects. “My mother is one of the Flying Santellis in center ring. Last summer, they did a six-week tour of Europe, and I went with them—It’s true!”  Suzy insists as I laugh.

 

I'm pleased that several of the other girls are snickering as well. Honestly, the circus? Nobody's family is with the circus, unless they're gypsies or something. And with all the fuss about her family's long and respected history at Sunset Academy, well, it's the silliest story she could have come up with.

 

A couple months later, when the invitation to Suzy’s birthday party arrives, I’m not so happy. Suzy mailed the invitations instead of just passing them out after class. If she’d done that, it would’ve been easy to ‘lose’ it and not mention the party to Mom—but she got the mail, opened it, and tells me I’ll be going.

 

“But I can’t stand her!” I wail. “Nobody can! She thinks she’s better than everyone else!”

 

“That’s not true,” Mom contradicts me in a sharp tone. Ever since she told me about the baby, she’s been like that, worried and impatient. “I’ve seen her coming and going with her mother, and she’s got very nice manners.”

 

 _Manners! As if that means anything!_

 

“But Mom—“

 

“No more back talk, Rochelle O’Hara!” She stands there in the living room with one hand pressed against her back and the other curved over her bulging stomach. “We’re going to that party and you’re going to be polite if it kills you.”

 

Yes, she said “we”. It’s going to be a mother-daughter luncheon, which my mother thinks sounds charming, and which I think sounds horrible. _Just watch,_ I think, _The moms will be chattering to each other and none of_ us _will dare say a word…._

 

On the day of the party, I’m dressed in my best frock, powder blue organza trimmed with lace over matching blue tights, and I’m carrying the present that my mother selected and wrapped.  My hair is brushed back and held in place with a headband. Dressy, but not too-too, I hope.

 

It seems like an awfully long drive, but Mom insists she knows exactly where we’re going.

 

The driveway is bracketed by big curlicued iron gates. A gravel driveway leads to the biggest, most ostentatious house I’ve ever seen. It has balconies and turrets and roofs that intersect with other roofs—my dad would say it looks like it was built by committee. “Oh, my,” Mom says, staring at it. “How very—“ She doesn’t say very _what_ , but I feel vindicated anyway.

 

Tessa answers the door. She smiles at us both, and guides us back to the dining room where the luncheon is taking place. I’m cheered to see the house is a bit shabby, not grand at all. There’s a fragrance of cooking in the hall, making my stomach growl unexpectedly.

The dining room is spacious, the table set for more than eight mother-daughter couples. We’re the first ones there, except for a bunch of relatives.

 

I know her mom by sight from ballet school. Mrs. Gardner is tiny and blonde, sparkly in a gold dress—I bet it’s leftover from New Year’s Eve, which was a few weeks ago.  Mom is wearing the dress she got for Dad’s company Christmas party; it’s dark green and doesn’t sparkle.

 

“This is quite a house,” my mother says to her. I know this is one of her ways of pretending to compliment something she doesn’t necessarily like.

 

“It’s like something out of the New Yorker,” Mrs. Gardner agrees with a little smile, “but it’s been in the family for ages and ages.”

 

Mom stifles a giggle. “I _was_ thinking Charles Addams,” she confides. “I’m sure it’s marvelous for entertaining, though. Such scale! They really don’t make them like this anymore.”

 

“This is for you.” I hand the package to Suzy, who’s dainty in a yellow silk dress with a corsage of yellow roses. There’s a yellow bow in her hair, which looks gorgeous. I hate her again. Mindful of Mom, who’s standing right there, I  force a smile and say, “Happy birthday.”

 

“Thank you, Rochelle. I’m glad you could be here.” Suzy carefully sets the bright-wrapped box on a buffet with other gifts. “You know my cousin, Tessa, don’t you? And this is our cousin, Clay—“ Clay is dreamy. I’m not sure how old he is, maybe eighteen or so? _He probably has tons of girlfriends and besides, I won’t be allowed to date ‘til I’m sixteen, anyway._ “This is Dave, his sister, Cleo—“

 

Other girls from our ballet class start to arrive—as Suzy makes repeated introductions, I get a better idea of who’s who: A silver-haired uncle named Joe is Clay’s dad. Tessa’s dad is Uncle Angelo. There’s an Uncle Tommy, who has red hair, a dark-haired man with the unlikely name of Babbo, Aunt Elissa whose kids are Dave and Cleo.  

 

The luncheon part of the party isn’t as bad as I was afraid of. I’ve got Mom on one side, but Cousin Cleo is on my other side, and she’s nice enough, although she looks so much like Suzy they could be sisters. She’s from San Francisco, and in between bites, we talk about our schools and ballet, which she likes, although she likes gymnastics better.

 

Mom and Daddy have taken me to Italian restaurants, but this food is better. It all smells good, aromas of garlic, tomato sauce, pungent cheese. The table is laden with huge bowls of pasta and platters of meatballs and sausages, and although most of the guests are eating heartily, they never seem to empty.

 

Mom has a tiny helping on her plate—the baby has affected her appetite, she just picks at food these days. I notice that Suzy’s mother doesn’t eat much, and neither do a couple of others.

 

In between eating and chatting with Cleo, I overhear bits of other conversations:

 

“—the horse dumped me in the watering trough—“ Uncle Angelo laughs as he talks about doing stunt work. He’s kind of distinguished looking, dark hair streaked with silver. “—and then it wandered over and started eating the script-girl’s clipboard.”

 

“Sarasota?”  one of the ballet moms asks Suzy’s dad. “We have a winter home in Tampa, we’ve visited the Ringling estate, but not the circus—“

 

“—built in the 1880s, and then Jimmy Folkstone bought it from the son of the original owner,” It’s Uncle Joe, the one with snowy white hair.

 

“The silent movie star? He killed himself when talkies came out, didn’t he?”

 

“Yes, but _not_ in the house. Myself, my brother and our father chipped in and bought the place from his estate—‘

 

“We used to scare each other as kids, saying the place was haunted, but it was nothing more than creaky floorboards and nerves.” Cleo’s mom chimes in.

 

“I don’t want to be a ballerina, I want to be an archeologist,” Matilda Barnes is telling another uncle. She usually doesn’t say two words to anyone during class, but here she is talking earnestly to Uncle Tommy, who’s listening more than he’s eating.

 

When we’re all sated and the motion of forks has stopped, Suzy’s dad taps on his glass with the side of his knife. “Suzy, my darling, if you’ll take your guests up to the gallery,” He smiles at the rest of us, “There’s a little entertainment for you before we have cake and presents.”

 

Suzy leads us out to the foyer and up a flight of steps, the length of one hallway, up some more stairs. She finally opens a door and ushers us into a kind of balcony. There are chairs and benches there—at first, I think there won’t be enough seating, but I realize we’ve lost a few members of the party along the way.

 

Beyond the balcony is a vast dark space. There are traces of distant light, as from under a door, and then a door swings open and closed quickly, a figure dark against the brief brightness.

 

“I wonder what this is,” someone’s mother says, and just then, a spotlight comes on.

 

Suzy’s dad is standing there in the column of light, wearing a tuxedo and a top hat.

 

“A warm welcome to our honored guests and especially to our lovely guest of honor, the birthday girl!” He sweeps the top hat off for a moment, bowing extravagantly. “Today it is my great privilege to present to you, a command performance of the Flying Santellis!”

 

Fluorescent lights come on around the big room, which is at least three stories high. The wooden floor reflects the lights with its luster. The walls are ornamented with mirrors in elaborately carved frames, gilded and antiqued. I spot a ballet barre along one wall, a carpet of tumbling mats in one corner, a trampoline and an odd collection of poles and wires and swings. One of the swings is only a few feet from the floor, the other is slightly above us.

 

From a door somewhere below us, a line of people emerges, single-file. They’re wearing green and gold satin costumes and tights,

 

I recognize Suzy’s mother, and Tessa and Clay, Tommy, the red-headed man Matilda was talking to, and the one Suzy calls Babbo. The Flying Santellis? At first, I think it’s an elaborate hoax, until I see them start to climb up rope ladders, up past us, to a little platform nearly to the ceiling. Clay and Tommy are at one end of the room, while the others are nearer to where we are.

 

A dark-haired figure soars away from the platform—it’s Tessa, and she’s as nonchalant as if she’s on a playground swing. I’ve seen gymnasts perform maneuvers like these on parallel bars, but not airborne like this. She twirls, she bends herself around the bar of the trapeze, swings, back and forth, high and higher—

 

I gasp as she flings herself off into space—and into the hands of Tommy, who’s dangling head-down from the other trapeze.

 

They swing together for a moment, and she releases her hold on him and dives for the first trapeze. Then she’s back on the platform, waving to us with a little flourish.

 

“A big hand for our own Tessa Santelli!” says Mr. Gardner, and we all applaud. I’m a little breathless—and as the performance continues, I’m completely captivated.

 

Suzy’s mother is the next to leap into space. She does some of the same gymnastics as Tessa, but when it’s her turn to cross to the other side, she does some kind of somersault in mid-air.  I can’t do stunts like that on the ground, let alone, what thirty, forty feet in the air? Never mind that there’s a net below, I’m terrified for her. She returns with a similar maneuver—as my heart pounds with apprehension.

 

Then she and Tessa are side-by-side on a wider trapeze, and when I look across, I see that Clay has joined Tommy in the upside-down position. I hold my breath as the women glide out and both soar as one to the waiting catchers.

 

I’ve never seen anything as perfect as the flying figures that swoop back and forth from bar to bar. It’s like ballet, but more. I know how much effort ballet takes, but this seems to defy gravity, as if at any moment, air will carry them as easily as birds, as if they’ll flutter around the baroque ceiling panels like green and gold parakeets. It was all true, what Suzy said about her family, and I’m chagrinned.

 

“And now, honored guests,” says the ringmaster when I’m light-headed and breathless, “We have one final feat to perform for you, one of the rarest and most dangerous aerial maneuvers ever displayed—Mario Santelli will show us the legendary triple somersault!” I knew ‘Babbo’ wasn’t a _real_ name, but I’m already thinking of him that way.

 

As we watch, Babbo swings, swings, swings again—oh my God!—but the spinning figure makes it safely to the man on the other trapeze, and I exhale.

 

Suzy is clapping madly as he locks hands with Tommy.

 

I applaud, too, and so do the others in the box. I’ve barely noticed them for the last little while, so rapt have I been by the fliers’ grace. The lights have faded out as the performers get to the floor, and everyone gets up to leave. For the first time, I realize Mom isn’t there.

 

“Your mother isn’t feeling well,” says Cleo’s mom, when she sees me looking around. “She’s going to lie down for a little bit, while everyone else is having cake.”

 

“Can I see her?” I ask, anxious now. I’m scared that it’s my fault; ever since she told me about the baby, I’ve felt resentful. _If it’s a boy, Daddy will probably ignore me for the rest of my life because he_ really _wants a son. If it’s a girl, what if she’s cute and they likes her more than me? And now, if anything happens to the baby, it’ll be my fault because I hated it to death._

 

“Of course, honey.” She guides me along the hallway to one of the bedrooms, Mom looks pale, but she pats my back as I drape myself across her in a hug.

 

“Are you okay, Mommy? Should we call a doctor? It isn’t the baby, is it?”

 

“I’m okay, Rochelle,” she says, sounding tired, but not overly concerned. “I think the garlic in the spaghetti sauce didn’t agree with me.” She gives me a wan smile. “I have some tablets to settle my stomach in my purse…I think I left it in the box, could you get it for me?”

 

I race back to the balcony, and from below me in the big room, I hear a light-footed runner and Suzy’s voice. “Oh Babbo, you did the triple for me! Thank you so much! That was the best present ever!”

 

“—nothing but the best for my best girl!” says a man’s voice.

 

There’s Mom’s bag. I snatch it up and flee back to the bedroom.

 

“Honey, you go have cake and enjoy the party,” Mom tells me, and yawns. “I’m just going to rest for a little while, I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Go ahead, it’s okay.”

 

Tessa is coming out of another room as I enter the hallway. She’s changed out of the green and gold costume into a simple skirt and sweater, but I’m still in awe of her.

 

“You were wonderful,” I tell her shyly, and she grins.

 

“Thanks, but I’m not that good yet. So far, I can’t really do much of anything except cross to the catcher.”

 

“But all that acrobatic stuff you did…” I bite my lip. “I’d be scared to death!”

 

“That? Oh, that part’s easy.” She’s trotting down the first flight of stairs. “We’ve got a little fixed trapeze, I’ve been fooling around on that since I was about your age. Later, if you want to—“

 

“No, thanks,” I say hastily as we descend the second staircase. “I don’t want to worry my mom in her condition.”

 

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

 

The guest of honor isn’t in the dining room, although there’s a huge cake trimmed with yellow roses on the table and a stack of cake plates beside it.

 

Suzy’s parents enter the gathering. They’re both wearing less formal clothes now: he has on a regular shirt and trousers instead of his tux, she’s donned a pretty dress in shades of blue, but it  isn’t embellished like the first dress she had on.

 

I catch sight of Clay, who’s in dungarees now and a plain white shirt, his dark hair slicked back. “Why can’t I go on the road with the act for another year?” I hear him complain to his dad. “It’s a stupid rule. Eighteen is an adult, so why do I have to be twenty-one to fly?”

 

“Don’t be in such a hurry, _ragazzo_ ,” says Uncle Angelo, who’s been listening. “Enjoy your youth and freedom while it lasts.” It’s affectionate, not lecturing, and beside him, Joe nods.

 

Clay looks like he’s about to object, but at that moment, Babbo and Tommy hold the swinging doors at the other end of the room open for Suzy. She enters to applause, the birthday girl,  the star of the show, smiling at everyone.

 

“Wow!” she. exclaims. “What a great cake! Thank you, Lulu!”

 

Her grandmother is lighting the candles atop the expanse of butter-cream and looks pleased. “Let’s see if you can blow out all those candles, Suzy. Take a deep breath—“

 

“Don’t forget to make a wish,” her dad encourages her. I haven’t seen my own dad in weeks, and I can’t even remember the last time he laughed or teased me.

 

Of course, the candles wink out in the wake of her mighty effort. Whatever her wish is, she’s the girl who’ll get it, but at this point, I’m more resigned than angry. She’s pretty, graceful, she has an amazing family—lucky her. I wish I could have a fraction of that luck.

 

After cake, Suzy opens her gifts. She gets a lot of clothes—Mom gave her a pale green sweater that’s nicer than anything I have. I suppose that’s because she says I’m hard on my clothes—my knee socks always get grimy, I lose buttons and my hems come undone—I don’t know how it happens, it just does. That shade of green would wash me out, but it’ll look stunning on her against her dark curls.

 

The table in front of Suzy is soon piled with leotards and tights and ballet slippers and even toe shoes, although our class isn’t even close to that milestone. A heavy rectangular box holds a set of records to help her learn Italian—“For our next tour,” her dad says. There are silver charms for her charm bracelet, a bank shaped like an elephant, some books.

 

I keep a smile pasted on my face, although I feel crowded by so many people, and for some reason, I want to cry. I say, “You’re welcome!” when I’m thanked, and I breathe a little easier when the mother-daughter contingent leaves, but I wish Mom would come down and take us home.

 

“I just checked in on her a few minutes ago,” says Cleo’s mom when I approach her. “She’s asleep. Believe me, Rochelle—I’ve had two kids, I know what a treasure a good afternoon nap can be when you’re expecting.” She smiles reassuringly.

 

Suzy rests a hand on my arm. “We’re going down to the practice room. Come on, it’ll be fun.”

 

“Not ‘til you’ve taken that stuff up to your room, young lady,” says her mother firmly. “Birthday girl or not, we’re not hauling it upstairs for you like pack mules.” She’s smiling, but she means it, and I’m glad to see Suzy doesn’t get away with goofing off.

 

“We’ll help,” Tessa says with a glance at Cleo, and the cousins begin gathering up boxes.

 

I’m kind of curious about what her room is like, so I grab the sweater—it’s cashmere!—and a bundle of leotards and tights, and we all troop upstairs

 

“And change out of that dress!” Mrs. Gardner calls after us. “Lulu spent too much time on it for you to wreck it in one afternoon!” I smile a little at that, proof that Suzy Gardner isn’t perfect.

 

Although it’s past dark outside, the room is sunny and inviting with yellow and white-striped wallpaper and yellow chiffon curtains. Suzy has a big white bed with a canopy, a white chenille bedspread with yellow roses and a pile of ruffled pillows. There’s a vanity table with a mirror where the jewelry and bank come to rest, a white painted table with a portable phonograph on it—it looks new, maybe she got it for Christmas—and the Italian language records are propped up beside it next to a row of albums. The new books find a niche below the bedside table.

There are lots of photos tacked to a bulletin board on the closet door. I study them as the girls help Suzy put her new clothes away. Family pictures mostly, some clearly taken here at the house, others of the Flying Santellis in a circus setting. I recognize Bart Reeder—Mom loves his movies—posing with Babbo and Tommy. There are famous places in Europe—the Eiffel Tower, the Coliseum—again, I feel melancholy. The most exciting place I ever went was San Francisco; the weather was crummy while we were there, so…not very exciting.

 

“Rochelle needs a leotard,” I hear Suzy say.

 

“What do I need a leotard for?” I protest in alarm.

 

“Relax,” says Tessa. “We aren’t going up on the rigging, just doing some barre work.”

 

The last thing I want to do is make a fool of myself doing ballet with these girls. _Might as well have a giraffe arabesque as me._ “No, really, this is fine.”

 

“Rules,” Suzy says succinctly. “No street clothes in the practice room. Good thing you’ve got your own tights. I think one of Barbara’s leotards will fit you.”

 

Three of them and one of me, I’m outvoted. Tessa disappears and comes back with a navy blue leotard, which harmonizes with the light blue tights I’m already wearing. Next to them, though, in peach and pink and yellow, I look drab and I feel clumsy.

 

There’s a back stairway, and that’s the route we take to what the others refer to as the practice room.  This turns out to be the big room with the trapeze equipment.

 

Again, I’m scared that they’re going to want me to climb up there, but instead, Suzy pulls a chair out of one of the side rooms and places it near the ballet bar and the wall of mirrors. Meanwhile Tessa lugs an old portable record player out of a back room. She sets at on the chair and plugs it in..

 

‘The Nutcracker Suite’ is familiar, and I relax a little. I rest my hand on the barre and practice a few of the steps I know.

 

“Can I say something?” Tessa asks quietly a few minutes later. “It might make things easier for you.”

 

Suzy and Cleo are playing tag, with _jetés_ and _entrechats_ , capering like young gazelles. At least Tessa isn’t pointing out my clumsiness to them, too.

 

“Instead of going, step-step-step, try to find the rhythm. A steady, even rhythm. Like when you’re on a…a swing, you know how you pump your legs back and forth? Like that. You don’t have to think about it, it’s automatic.”

 

 _Automatic for you, maybe._

 

“Smoothly,” she coaches me. “It should all flow.” She flows through the basic positions, easy, deliberate, and I remind myself that she’s been doing ballet for years and years, not just a few months like me. “Get a feeling for how one step follows the next….”

 

I’m relieved when Cleo’s mom enters and calls, “Time to go, Cleo! We’ve got a long drive ahead of us!”

 

“That late?” says Tessa as Cleo grabs her skirt and waves good-bye. “I’d better see if Lulu needs any help. Keep working at it, you’ll get better.” She follows the others out through the far doorway.

 

Now it’s just me and Suzy, alone, and I’m tongue-tied.

 

She does a few steps in time with “The Dance of the Flowers”, then prances over and switches the phonograph off. She’s still fresh and tidy, I’m icky with sweat and my hair looks like weeds. _Why can’t I be like her?_

 

“It was a nice party,” I say awkwardly.

 

She nods. “It was just what I was hoping for, a great dinner and the flying act—I’m so thrilled, Babbo did a triple just for me! Usually, he saves it for real performances at Starr’s. And the whole family was here, except for Barbara—she’s Clay’s older sister, she’s making a film on location—and our class from Sunset—I think everyone had a good time, don’t you?”

 

“Matilda was talking to your Uncle Tommy. She hardly ever opens her mouth in class. I caught Patty laughing at your cousin Dave’s joke about the two dogs.” Patty has braces, and she’s usually too self-conscious about showing them to let loose. “The food was great. Your grandma is a fantastic cook.”

 

“I’m glad you had a good time. You seem so sad sometimes.” Her dark eyes regard me, questioning.

 

“Me? What are you talking about?”

 

Suzy shrugs. “You never seem to be having fun in class. You always look like you want to be somewhere else.”

 

“I hate ballet. I’m no good at it, and I wish Mom would let me quit.”

 

She nods. “I know how you feel. I’m not crazy about ballet—“ My jaw drops, because she’s so good at it. “—but it’s something I have to do before I can fly.”

 

She’s gazing up towards the trapeze as she says this, a note of wistfulness in her voice, and I understand, suddenly, how foolish it’s been to resent her. She can’t help being good at ballet; after seeing the rest of her family, I know hating Suzy for being graceful is like hating a swan for gliding across a lake. It’s what she is, what she was always meant to be.

 

“You’re lucky, though,” Suzy continues. “You’re tall, like a model, and you’ve got Alice-in-Wonderland hair. I can’t grow mine that long, it gets all tangled.” She reaches out and combs her fingers through a length of my hair, gently straightening it.

 

“I can’t do anything with it, though,” I protest. “It won’t hold a curl, even when Mom rolls it with rollers and sets it with Dippity-do. An hour later, it’s flat again. It’s not even a good color, it’s just dishwater blonde.”

 

“It’s easy enough to lighten it a little,” she says dismissively. “You’re fair enough, you’d look so cute. On me, it would look fake….” She shakes her head. “And your mom,” she says, off on another tangent. “You’re going to have a baby sister or brother! You’re _so_ lucky.” Her lips tremble. “I’m always going to be an only child, because Stella can’t.”

 

My mouth is hanging open again. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and close it.

 

“I’m the baby of the family, and sometimes, it really stinks. I do anything out of line, and I hear about it from everybody! Mom, Papa, Lulu Babbo, all the uncles, even Clay and Tessa!” She sighs gustily.  “Lulu doesn’t approve of my cousin Barbara having her own apartment, but boy, I sure understand why she does!”

 

I’ve never known anyone who called her mother by her first name before, let alone her grandmother.

 

At home, it’s just my mom and dad, and he hasn’t been around much since last spring—he’s always on some business trip or other, coming home long enough to go to meeting at work and have his suits run through the dry cleaners. Most of the time, it’s just me and Mom—we don’t have any family in California at all.

 

“I’m worried about my mom,” I say. “I thought women were supposed to be happy when they had babies. She’s sick all the time and she hasn’t been herself.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Suzy says softly. “I hope she feels better when the baby comes.”

 

“Me, too. I should probably go see how she’s doing.”

 

The house is a maze; we don’t go back the way we came. Suzy’s route takes us through the kitchen, where Babbo and Tommy are teasing Clay about being on his third helping of pasta.

 

“We’re going to need a crane to get you into the catch trap!” Babbo chuckles.

 

“I didn’t have anything to eat before the show, I was hungry!”

 

Mom wasn’t the only light eater at lunch…I figure that getting sick in midair would be a disaster. 

 

From the kitchen, we enter the dining room. The table has been cleared, and Suzy’s grandmother is doing something with scissors to a combination of paper and cloth on the table.

 

I pause to ask, “What’s all that paper and stuff?

 

She sets the scissors down and shows me a brightly printed envelope. “It’s going to be this dress for Stella, but with some changes to the neckline.”

 

“Why doesn’t she just buy a dress?”

 

“Most of the dresses you find in stores aren’t worth all the money they charge,” says Mrs. Santelli with asperity. “Twenty-five dollars she paid for a new dress, and the side seam came apart the first time she wore it! It’s shoddy workmanship, that’s what it is, and this will cost half as much to make and last for years! What, your mother doesn’t sew?”

 

I shake my head. _I’d better not tell her that Mom will buy a whole new blouse if one of hers pops a button._ “No, ma’am.” I remember something my mother told me once while we were shopping. “She said she wore too many feed-sack dresses growing up, she didn’t ever want another cheap cotton dress again.”

 

“That’s silly,” Suzy says. “Lulu made my party dress for today, and it’s real silk.”

 

“I’m just telling you what she said.”

 

“Your mother’s in the living room with Stella,” Mrs. Santelli informs me. “I’m going to get you some food to take home. You’re too skinny.” She exits toward the kitchen, and we can hear her say, “Clay, you’d better not have eaten all the ziti!”

 

Suzy and I giggle as we go to the living room, and I’m glad to see Mom sitting in an armchair, Suzy’s mom nearby on the sofa. Mom looks more relaxed than I’ve seen her in weeks.

 

“I’m feeling a lot better,” she says when I hug her. “I had a nice nap and some soup, and my tummy is happy now. Have you been having a good time?”

 

I nod, somewhat surprised to find out it’s the truth. “It was a very nice party,” I say shyly to Mrs. Gardner, and to Suzy, “I had fun with you and your cousins. Oh, I’d better get out of this leotard, my dress is still upstairs…”

 

When I return, Mom has her coat on, and Mrs. Santelli has brought us a big brown paper bag. “There’s some ziti, and some cake,” she says, handing me the bag. “You can give the dishes to Suzy when you see her at the ballet school.”

 

“We will, thank you so much,” says my mother, hugging them in turn. Impulsively, I hug Suzy, then we’re out the door and on our way home.

 

Classes are friendlier now that everyone has met away from the discipline of the barre and has gotten a little better acquainted. I don’t magically become a ballerina, although I’m less anxious after Tessa’s encouragement. And it really helps to know that Suzy Gardner is envious of me.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this, my dear recipient. It may not be *exactly* what you were hoping for, but this is what my Muse gave me.


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